


Divine

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft/Lestrade Mpreg. Someone had to do it. Don't ask why it was me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine

"Ready?"

There were nods and affirmative answers from around the room. Mycroft's hand gripped his. He could see the smile on Mycroft's face despite the white mask covering half of it, in the way the skin crinkled around his eyes. He squeezed the hand back, and looked down, feeling as if he were watching something on television when the scalpel slid through his skin, blood welling up in the cut left behind.

12 Months Earlier

The office was quiet, the gentle hum of the air conditioning and slight whir of the fan in the computer the only sounds.

The doctor nodded to himself as he read through the report, then turned to them both. Mycroft's hand gripped his then, too.

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but the tests have shown you have an intolerance to three of the chemicals essential to the process. I'm afraid there really isn't any solution we can offer to this problem. It simply won't be possible to carry out the procedure."

It had felt as if time stood still. The hours and hours they had spent discussing it, from Mycroft's first, tentative questions about Lestrade's views on children ("criminals in training") to the discussions about the procedure ("Three people have done it before? Why wasn't it in the news?") and the gradual acceptance that it sounded safe enough ("If you're sure you want to go through with it, I don't want you to risk yourself...") until, finally, a real feeling that he might get something he could never have dreamt of ("I mean, ours, it'd really be ours...biologically? And...Yes, God, yes.") suddenly felt wasted, as their hopes and dreams were dragged out from beneath them.

He still wasn't quite sure it was really he who had said it, but suddenly there was a voice, speaking, loud in the silent room.

"Test me. See if I'd be suitable."

And he'd have given anything in the world at that moment, as Mycroft's expression turned from one of loss, of grieving for something they'd never even had, to hope and thanks and utter, pure love.

"You're sure?"

And he'd nodded, because suddenly, despite the long conversations about Mycroft being younger and fitter, about Mycroft's job being possible to carry out from home, safely behind a desk, none of that seemed to matter. What mattered was that a child could be theirs, truly theirs, and there was nothing Mycroft wanted more.

He had shrugged. "What is it Sherlock says?" he gestured down at himself. "It's just transport. May as well take a passenger, right?"

When the tests had come back a week later, the doctor smiling and nodding this time, he felt a tinge of worry, a tiny thread of apprehension, but he shrugged it off. His decision had been simple, and he was sure it was the correct one.

10 Months Earlier

The boxes of needles and pills seemed endless. The doctor had been through everything with them in the clinic, but now he stared down at the sheets of paper in his hands and couldn't make sense of any of it. The names of the drugs were so long, the descriptions of their purpose baffling. He turned to Mycroft, who calmly began sorting through everything, re-labelling boxes with 'morning', 'noon' and 'night'. Lestrade watched, pleased that someone knew what they were doing, and dutifully swallowed the first round of pills. Then they sat on the edge of the bed, him with his trousers down around his knees, and removed the cap from the syringe. He glanced at Mycroft, who looked a little pale, and gave a small smile. Mycroft hated needles, but he forced himself to watch as Lestrade plunged it into his thigh, discharging the contents before carefully putting the used syringe into the yellow bin they had been given.

"Day one," Lestrade smiled at him.

Mycroft had kissed him, hand finding the spot on his thigh, which now stung slightly, and rubbing over it. "Day one," he had agreed.

9 Months Earlier

He had woken up with a familiar fuzzy feeling and a dry mouth. He blinked his eyes open, glad that the light was dim. He could feel Mycroft's hand in his.

"It went perfectly," Mycroft said softly. "Everything exactly as planned."

He smiled, tightening his grip on Mycroft's hand.

"Here," Mycroft held out a beaker full of water with a straw in it, and Lestrade took it awkwardly. Mycroft then picked up his own paper cup of tea, and knocked the two vessels together. "Congratulations," he said. "You're pregnant."

Lestrade laughed, the sentence sounding so utterly ridiculous, and sipped the water through the pink straw. He slid his free hand down to his stomach, feeling the soft dressing taped there.

After another sleep he had woken feeling far more alert, and had sat up in bed, lifting up the loose shirt he had on and peeling back the dressing. The carefully stitched incision, only a couple of inches long, the only sign anything had happened. He rested his hand over it, detecting the slight bulge.

"Suddenly feels real," he admitted to Mycroft.

"It does, doesn't it?" Mycroft had laid his hand on top of Lestrade's.

8.5 Months Earlier

He stood by the sink, one hand on the worktop, the other rubbing over his stomach, trying to massage away the cramp. He'd been warned to expect it, and told there was nothing to worry about - it was just his body reacting to the 'womb' he now had implanted in him. It was only natural for his muscles to take a while to get used to the intruder. But any pain made him worry.

"Gregory?" Gentle hands touched his shoulders.

"Just cramp," he said, teeth clenched.

Mycroft rubbed gentle circles on his back, moving to stand in front of him, forcing him to stand up straight instead of hunching over. He stepped into the offered hug, Mycroft's hand never leaving his back. "It'll pass. Have you taken your medication?"

Lestrade nodded. "Not long ago though."

"Should I contact your office?"

Lestrade shook his head, then flinched as another wave of pain gripped him. "Pills'll work in a minute."

A warm hand slid over his abdomen, finding the now-healed incision and resting there, fingers very gently moving to massage away the pain.

8 Months Earlier

He rested back against the bath, panting. His whole body felt like it was trembling, his muscles weak. He could still smell vomit – taste it in his mouth. He hadn't even managed to get to his phone to send a quick message to the Yard that he wasn't feeling too good. The nausea had hit him so hard and fast as he was dressing he'd barely managed to stagger into the bathroom.

His face was a mess of sweat and tears and snot, all from the strain of his body feeling as if it were trying to expel all his internal organs at once. He looked down at himself – suit trousers, lightly checked shirt, every inch of him saying 'businessman'. Who'd believe he was stuck in his own bathroom, wishing he could find every single colleague or friend who have ever managed to work through pregnancy and wanting to shake them by the hand and congratulate them on managing to leave the house.

Another wave of nausea flooded over him, and he made it to his knees, arms resting on the toilet seat as he retched. There was nothing in his stomach – hadn't been since he started, but his body wasn't getting the message.

He didn't hear the front door open, or the hurried footsteps on the stairs.

"Gregory? My God, are you all right?" Mycroft dropped to his knees beside him, a hand automatically resting on his back. "When you didn't answer your phone I…" He stopped as Lestrade retched again, before sagging limply back against the bath, face red.

"'S all right," Lestrade panted, not wanting Mycroft to worry.

Mycroft ran a flannel under the cold water, wringing it out and settling in front of Lestrade, gently wiping his face. "Shall I help you back to the bed?" he offered.

Lestrade shook his head, pretty certain he wasn't finished in the bathroom yet. 

So instead Mycroft sat beside him, pulling him into a loose hug, pressing his lips into Lestrade's unruly hair.

Lestrade relaxed a little, closing his eyes, breathing deeply to try and fight off the ever-present nausea. But it was no good, and a few minutes later he shoved himself back up to lean over the toilet. He was so tired, he was certain his muscles would give up soon, and maybe he'd be able to sleep for a while, anything to get away from the rolling in his stomach.

"I'm calling John," Mycroft announced, fingers already on the buttons of his mobile.

"No," Lestrade protested. But his heart wasn't in it. They'd discussed with the clinic what would happen in the event he needed medical treatment – and Mycroft had been certain John would help.

It seemed as if Mycroft ignored him anyway, as he heard the conversation over the phone, then another, instructing Anthea to collect John from Baker Street.

He had settled back into Mycroft's arms when they heard the front door open, and the low murmur of John and Anthea's voices.

"Up here, Doctor Watson," Mycroft called, tightening his hold slightly on Lestrade.

John appeared in the doorway, quick eyes taking in the scene. "Lestrade?" he frowned.

"Please tell me you brought your gun," Lestrade mumbled into Mycroft's shoulder. "Just shoot me, please."

John looked alarmed.

"Please, Doctor, if you'll give me a moment, I shall explain," Mycroft said, his free hand finding Lestrade's and interlinking their fingers. "This may sound rather…fantastical. But Gregory is suffering from morning sickness. And I believe you may be able to help – perhaps prescribe an anti-nausea drug?"

"I…" John stopped, looking from Lestrade's miserable expression to Mycroft's calm yet serious one. "Morning…sickness. As in…"

"Gregory is currently carrying our child. A clinic in Switzerland offered us the opportunity to take advantage of some cutting-edge medical technology. Sadly I was not a suitable candidate, but Gregory was. He has had an artificial womb implanted, complete with a fertilized egg. If you step into the bedroom you will see the range of drugs he has been taking. I have the Doctor in charge on speed-dial, and I suggest you familiarize yourself with the medication Gregory has taken, then call him, so between the two of you can plan a course of action."

John blinked. "He…a…I've never even heard of…"

Mycroft cut him off. "The research began to assist with the survival of extremely premature births, and moved into the realm of artificial wombs, and from thence, into the chance for a male to be the host. We are not the first people to proceed with this course of treatment."

John just nodded, eyes still wide, as if he wasn't sure he wasn't dreaming. Then glanced out into the bedroom, seeing the neat piles of boxes. "I'll just…" he gestured.

Once he was back he knelt in front of Lestrade, looking between him and Mycroft. "So, uh…um, how far along are you?"

"Thirty-two days," Mycroft stated.

"Right, and how long have you been suffering from nausea?" John pressed the small electric thermometer into Lestrade's ear, nodding at the result.

"This week," Lestrade mumbled, earning himself a look from Mycroft, who he hadn't quite admitted that to. "But…last three days have been…"

"Right. Have you been able to eat and drink and keep anything down?"

Lestrade nodded. "A bit. In the afternoon. Not much."

John took his pulse, then pressed hard on his fingernail, watching the pink colour return.

"Slightly dehydrated. Right, let's talk to your doctor."

Lestrade rested his forehead back against Mycroft as John spoke down the telephone – mainly words far too long and technical for Lestrade's tired brain to even try and identify.

At the end of the conversation John wiped his hand over his face. "Well, wow. I mean, it's amazing…what…Anyway, I can prescribe you something which should help. Also, I'm going to get you some electrolyte solution – you just need to try and sip on it, to get your fluid and salt levels up. I'll also give you a quick check up. He's…he's a fascinating man. His work sounds…well, anyway, look, I'll write the prescriptions, and if Anthea goes to fetch them, we can talk."

Lestrade was finally moved back to the bed, where he dozed – a large bowl nearby, just in case, whilst John and Mycroft spoke in hushed tones – or at least, Mycroft was hushed, John occasionally couldn't keep his amazement in check.

Lestrade was, he decided, glad that John now knew what was happening. He felt safer, and more reassured, at the thought of their being a doctor close by who understood the very unusual circumstances.

6 Months Earlier

He sat on the edge of the bed, resignedly stabbed the needle through his skin, pushed the plunger and threw the needle into the bin, with well-practiced accuracy. He twitched the covers back and sank onto the mattress, hand automatically rubbing his leg to help dissipate the drug.

"Okay?" Mycroft pulled him into a hug.

"Mmm." He reached for a kiss.

Mycroft's hand automatically slid across his belly, as it always did. "I can really feel it now, you know," he said, unable to stop smiling.

Lestrade grinned back. "I know." His hand joined Mycroft's, feeling the bulge, still finding it very difficult to believe that there really was a little tiny life inside him.

The sickness had, largely, passed. Although it had meant that Mycroft panicked whenever he wasn't hungry, or wanted a lie-down, or anything else he thought unusual. He knew he had to be careful – take the drugs John had prescribed (on top of the stack he already needed), and eat multiple small meals during the day. But he'd only felt truly sick a few times, and he could generally pinpoint the reason why, now.

John had been wonderful, checking up on him, speaking to the clinic, trying to understand everything he could and being a generally calm and collected voice of reason. After the initial shock of his newest patient being something of a medical miracle.

He slid his hand down Mycroft's stomach to the growing erection, dragging his fingertips delicately over the soft skin.

"You're sure?" Mycroft asked – always cautious, nowadays.

Lestrade kissed him again, unable to stop smiling. "Need to take advantage, before I look like a space hopper and you go off me completely."

Mycroft snorted. "I can assure you that is not going to happen."

5 Months Earlier

He lay on the sofa, half watching television, half watching Mycroft move around in the kitchen. His hand rested on his stomach, a habit now. He found it reassuring, to feel the swollen bump. You still couldn't really see it, especially when he was clothed. Naked there was an obvious bulge, if you were looking for it. But anyone unfamiliar with his usual shape wouldn't have put it down to anything unusual.

Then he felt it – a fluttering, a shift inside him. He tensed, eyes wide, and looked down at his abdomen. He shifted his hand, but despite another feeling inside, his hand couldn't really detect any movement.

"Myc!" he called, shifting and sitting up slightly.

"What? Are you okay?" Mycroft was there within seconds, alarm clear on his face.

"Yes! I can feel it – I can feel movement!" The smile threatened to split his face. "I can…really, like…just a little bit, like he's shifting, just…"

Mycroft's hand joined his, and the smile matched his own.

"I can't really tell with my hand, but inside, inside, he's…"

"He?" Mycroft grinned.

"Or she," Lestrade shrugged, still smiling.

Later that night Mycroft sat behind Lestrade, enjoying the weight of Lestrade leaning back against his chest. His arms were wrapped around Lestrade, holding him loosely, and he hoped soon he'd be able to feel the child too, and experience the same joy as Lestrade obviously had.

4 Months Earlier

Mycroft kept the ultrasound picture in the pocket of his jacket, and whenever he the politics and arguments and legal wranglings got him down he took it out and stared at it. The fuzzy black and white lines, the distinct limbs and head. It was hard to believe it was real.

He would often get home to find Lestrade asleep, or moving around stiffly, and he knew the weight of the baby was putting a strain on Lestrade's already-confused body.

He also knew that Lestrade was less and less inclined to leave the house – feeling as if everyone were staring at him, no matter what Mycroft said to try to persuade him otherwise.

"No one will know," he'd said, sliding hands over Lestrade's slightly bulging stomach.

"No, they'll just think I've got a beer gut, great!" Lestrade had replied. "Don't need to go out, anyway."

So on Friday night, Mycroft retrieved the two bags he had packed and had Anthea stow them in the car, arranged for it to be outside the door, and held Lestrade's coat out to him.

"Gregory, we're going out."

"Are not," Lestrade didn't even look around.

"I promise you, it's somewhere completely private. No one will see you. Honestly, my darling, I wouldn't make you do anything you didn't wish to."

Lestrade had glanced around then.

"Please," Mycroft said. "Trust me?"

Lestrade had, somewhat grudgingly. And when the car had whisked them away from London he had looked across at Mycroft. "Where are we…?"

"Just away."

The house was in a remote location, but inside was luxury. The sun was setting as they arrived, so it was hard to see the rolling countryside and blue sea, but the interior was cosy, still retaining the warmth of the sunny day. There was food in the fridge and as well as wine (which Mycroft was glad to see) there was a range of fruit juices and soft drinks.

"I was concerned you'd become bored," Mycroft said, leading Lestrade into the plush sitting room. "I thought you could do with some time away – and where you can enjoy the outside world, without being concerned about someone seeing you."

Lestrade enjoyed a bath with Mycroft, allowing the silence of the countryside and the bubbles of the spa bath to soothe away any worries he may have had.

The next day, as he lay on a lounger in the sunshine, reading a book he felt a distinct jolt run through him, and put his hand on his belly. He felt it again, and grinned. "Myc," he said softly, reaching out for Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft put the book he had been reading down and swung his legs off his own lounger, reaching out. Lestrade put his hand gently on the soft cotton of his shirt, and Mycroft felt the distinctive jump and slight bulge as a tiny foot impacted with Lestrade's skin and muscles.

"Oh my…" It happened again, and he wanted to grab Lestrade and hold him tight. A small part of him was still slightly jealous that Lestrade had been the one to carry the child – but now he felt as if he were a part of it, now he felt as if he had interacted with the tiny baby, who seemed to be rearranging itself into a more comfortable position, if the slight dips and bumps of movement were anything to go by. "It's…I…" And he kissed Lestrade; unable to find the words he needed, for once in his life.

That afternoon they went for a walk along the cliffs, his arm wrapped around Lestrade's waist. And for the first time, he truly felt as if it were the three of them, together.

3 Months Earlier

Lestrade felt fat. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed himself dry with a towel, feeling the strain as he tried to bend to reach his feet, and giving up, to prop each ankle on the opposite knee instead.

"Lie down," Mycroft ordered.

Lestrade complied, making himself comfortable on the fluffy towel Mycroft had laid on the bed. He smiled as he felt Mycroft begin with his feet, gently rubbing moisturizer into his skin, relaxing the muscles and stopping the annoying itch of dryness which he sometimes found.

As Mycroft got as far as his domed belly he spent extra time working the oil into his skin. He knew there were livid stretch marks there now, but Mycroft didn't seem to care, and he couldn't bring himself to. Mycroft lingered over his belly, and Lestrade knew it was because he was hoping to feel some movement.

"Quiet now," Lestrade said sleepily. "Should've been here earlier. Had hiccups, didn't you?"

Mycroft had caught Lestrade talking to the child inside him a few times now – and was amused that Lestrade always addressed it as male. He knew they could have asked, at the scans, to discover the sex, but they had decided not to. Mycroft because he wasn't sure he wanted to know, Lestrade because he insisted he knew it was a boy.

"Really?" he wished he could be at home all the time, to experience every little thing.

Lestrade nodded. "For about half an hour. Then had a kickabout and settled again."

Mycroft smiled, fingers tracing patterns in the hair on Lestrade's stomach.

"Wouldn't be smiling if he was kicking your lunch back into your throat," Lestrade said, smiling himself anyway.

2 Months Earlier

He was uncomfortable – he was almost always uncomfortable these days. But that wasn't the reason there were tears streaming down his face. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure why there were tears streaming down his face. He sniffed.

"Gregory?"

"'M fine," he sniffed again.

"What…is something wrong?"

Lestrade shook his head. Mycroft was sitting behind him, wrapping him in a hug, so couldn't see his face.

"Tell me," Mycroft urged.

"It's just…the film," Lestrade sniffed. "I…don't laugh." He could feel the slight shake of Mycroft's mirth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Mycroft kissed the back of his head. "They did say you might become more emotional…"

Lestrade wiped his sleeve across his eyes. "I hate you," he said, as Mycroft's laughter increased.

"Well, tomorrow we shall choose something less emotionally wrought than 'Finding Nemo', okay?" he said.

Lestrade hit him on the leg.

He knew they'd warned him about the unpredictability of his moods, as he reached the end of the pregnancy. And he'd found himself angry at the fridge, crying at a bloody cartoon, utterly despairing of everything in the world, just because he couldn't find the missing one of a pair of socks and yelling at Mycroft when he'd innocently suggested that Lestrade should sit down and relax for a moment.

He was also, he realized, apprehensive of the end coming. He'd spent so long with their child inside him he actually worried about it coming out, having to survive the world, and he knew that, despite the puking and pain and back ache and dizzy spells and feeling as if someone had filled his shoes with lead, he would miss it when it was out, and someone else could hold it instead.

2 Weeks Earlier

"Sorry," he muttered for about the hundredth time, as he rolled onto his back, and Mycroft shifted away from him.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Well, short of going downstairs and getting a knife and a pudding basin."

Mycroft slid a hand onto Lestrade's thigh, and Lestrade let out a long breath. But he wasn't any more comfortable than he had been. He moved again, getting more frustrated than anything else. He just wanted to sleep, but whatever he did, the kid was pressing on something important. He sighed again, sliding his hand over the taut skin. "Come on, kid, give me a break," he muttered.

Now

"Almost there," the doctor said. Mycroft was straining to see, Lestrade was content to stay in the slightly warm and fuzzy grip of the drugs, watching as his skin parted, the doctor reaching inside him, gloves dark with blood and iodine. "Lovely, yes, beautiful."

And then, with a slight jostle and a very strange feeling inside him, the baby was pulled up and out, cord trailing, tiny fingers grasping at nothing, mouth open, eyes squeezed closed.

Mycroft actually gasped, and Lestrade took a second to glance from the child to his lover, to the bright wetness in the blue eyes.

There was quick movement as the doctors clipped and snipped the cord, the child being passed away, deft examinations being carried out. Lestrade could hear crying, and it struck him that that was his child – their child. Mycroft moved, suddenly, and Lestrade watched as the tiny bundle was placed into his arms.

"A perfect little boy," the doctor said, and Lestrade could hear the joy in his voice.

Mycroft moved, turning to him, and gently lowered the child onto Lestrade's chest. Lestrade lifted his hand, trailing tubes and cables, and stroked his finger down the soft chubby cheek. The child quieted, face still screwed up, and Lestrade lifted his head to kiss the still-damp forehead.

"He's amazing," Mycroft said, bending down and kissing Lestrade's forehead. "Thank you, thank you."

Lestrade just smiled, taking in the dark hair and finally bright blue eyes as they blinked open. "Hello, kid," he murmured.

Mycroft sat down again, still supporting the child, allowing Lestrade to keep his hand on the tiny head, gently stroking the soft, fine hair.

"Welcome to the family," Mycroft said softly.

~Fin


End file.
